<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Dread of Being Awakened by cwmilton</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942312">The Dread of Being Awakened</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwmilton/pseuds/cwmilton'>cwmilton</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Emma (2020), Emma (TV 2009), Emma - Jane Austen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dreams, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Very slightly AU, only the tiniest bit of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwmilton/pseuds/cwmilton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Emma had failed to renew the conversation with Mr. Knightley after she stopped him from speaking? Left without clarity, Emma feels certain that Mr. Knightley is heartbroken over her refusal to accept his attachment to Harriet Smith, and, indeed, Mr. Knightley is clearly avoiding her. How can they revitalize their friendship and, perhaps, muddle their way towards "perfect happiness?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>292</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello again to my favorite fandom! I have been working on a longer Emma fic that I hope to post soon, but I've been a little stymied by some of the plot points. I thought it might help get me "unstuck" to write something short, sweet, and based on a straightforward premise, but of course this ended up being three times longer than I expected. </p><p>The is my first real "AU" (although it's not much of one- I can't stand making Emma and Mr. Knightley sad for very long). As always, I'd love your feedback and thoughts.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling. </em>
  </p>
  <p><em>  — </em>Emma, Vol III, Chapter XIII</p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Part I</b>
</p><p>
  <em>They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had reached the house. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You are going in, I suppose?” said he. </em>
</p><p>Emma looked in and saw her father sitting alone by the fire. Mr. Perry had left. He spotted Emma and Mr. Knightley just out the window and gestured for them to come in. They would not have the opportunity to speak any further today without Mr. Woodhouse present.</p><p>“Yes, I suppose I must. Will you join us for tea?” she asked, looking up at him, her eyes wide. It took all the will she had left to hold back the tears she could sense forming. She could feel her lower lip quiver.</p><p>He would not meet her gaze. “No thank you, Emma. Please give my apologies to your father. I find I am more tired from the ride than I expected.” He bowed, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Good day.” </p><p>Emma watched him stride out of the shrubbery and into the fields beyond. She could just see his figure disappear into the bright light of the sunset when her father opened the door behind her. </p><p>“Emma my dear, you must come inside or you will catch cold! Did Mr. Knightley leave? How did he find Isabella and the children?” </p><p>Emma stepped inside behind him covertly wiping her eyes with her shawl. “Yes, father, Mr. Knightley returned home for his evening tea. No news from London. All is well.” </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p>For two weeks she and Mr. Knightley did not speak at all. He did not come for his usual tea or supper. He would visit, of course— Emma knew that he felt duty-bound to see her father regularly and to help with his correspondence— but there were no cheerful evenings by the fire, no genial debates about the latest goings-on in town. He seemed to appear in her father’s study as if by magic, never even passing her in the hall. She would leave the parlor adjacent for a mere moment to speak with Serle or to retrieve a thread from her sewing kit, and when she returned, she would hear his voice behind the closed study door. Once, a few days ago, she had returned to the parlor, remembering a list she’d made for the grocer, and caught him leaving. </p><p>He was already halfway through the door outside when she couldn’t help but call out, “Mr. Knightley!”</p><p>He whirled around and stared at her, open-mouthed, as if he’d seen a ghost, the color quickly draining from his face. </p><p>After a moment, he composed himself and nodded to her briskly. “Emma,” was all he said before he turned back toward the garden and took his leave, not even closing the door behind him. </p><p>Emma knew that he must be very disappointed that she had discouraged him from telling her of his affection for Harriet. She knew he must be torn. There was so much disparity in their positions, but as Mr. Knightley had said of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, what man could resist providing his beloved with “the only advantage she wants?” As she recalled his words with clarity, she felt their sting anew, <em> A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals. </em></p><p>As she reflected on the past two weeks, Emma couldn’t help but sniff in derision, poking at the embroidered cap for Mrs. Weston’s baby with far too much fervor to achieve an elegant result. Harriet had been sent to Brunswick Square to visit John and Isabella and to see a dentist about a persistent toothache. Mr. Knightley could hardly be called a “happy mortal” now— with his skulking about and dining alone at Donwell. Was it not all her doing? Had her discouragement that day in the shrubbery convinced him to drop his attachment to Harriet and pursue the matter no further? Did he extrapolate from her reaction that he would be shunned for marrying a woman so far beneath him? </p><p>As the sun set that evening, Emma envisioned the three of them— Harriet, Mr. Knightley, and herself— all facing the long stretch of loneliness before them without any sense of how it might be resolved. Emma cursed her selfishness, her vanity. Her embroidery lay neglected on the table all but forgotten as she sank back into the settee. It was her own doing, she chided herself. Had she not brought Harriet before him? Had she herself not said to Mr. Knightley, <em> Were you ever to marry, she is the very woman for you? </em></p><p>Emma crushed a throw pillow to her face, blushing furiously at the memory. And now, she could not even find the strength of character to be happy for them? With just a few words, she could renew the conversation she had halted so abruptly and show him his path was clear. She groaned and shook her head, still covering her eyes with the soft velvet of the pillow. The answer was simple: She could not, she would never. Mr. Knightley was too dear to her. </p><p>She heard the clatter of the servants in the next room preparing for the evening meal, but she didn’t feel ready to face the world quite yet.</p><p>“Emma?” </p><p>Emma ripped the pillow from over her face to find Mr. Knightley standing over her, his head cocked and brow furrowed. She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t find a single excuse to explain her behavior. Her blush only deepened as she caught herself watching his lower lip as he worried it out of concern. </p><p>“Are you alright?” </p><p>“Oh yes!” she said, her voice an octave higher than normal as she attempted to sit up gracefully and nearly tipped over again, “Just fine! I thought I might take, um, a nap before supper.”</p><p>He offered his hand to help her stand, but as soon as she was fully upright, he snatched it back and held it behind him as if he’d been burned. </p><p>“A nap here, in the parlor?” he asked, bemused, “The windows face full west.”</p><p>“Hm, well...” She smoothed the front of her dress, avoiding his puzzled look, when she suddenly remembered he was not the only one who could ask questions. </p><p>“And what are <em> you </em> doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms and clutching her elbows. She had not meant to sound quite so challenging, but he had disappeared from her life for more than a fortnight only to reappear uninvited in the middle of the parlor—just as the table was being set, of course! </p><p>He looked down and opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead closed it with a sigh. He looked up at her from beneath his brow, and though he smiled softly, his eyes were so sad, so full of <em> something</em>, Emma thought, that it looked more like a grimace. </p><p>He began again, stating simply, “I thought, if it wasn’t any trouble, I might join you and your father for supper.” </p><p>All indignation she felt melted away. Clearly, though it caused him pain, he had decided to heed her warning and speak no more of Harriet Smith. Indeed, she hoped he intended to never speak of Harriet again <em> ever, </em> but at the very least, he desired Emma’s good will once more. She steeled herself<em>. </em>Was this not what she had wanted? To be secure in the knowledge that he would just remain single? Now, with Mr. Knightley actually standing before her, she felt far less certain that such an outcome would leave her as perfectly satisfied as she once thought. </p><p>She realized that she had not answered his implied question, and he was watching her with great trepidation. </p><p>He reached out gently and his fingertips grazed hers sending a shiver up her spine. “Of course, I have given you no notice, Emma. I can—” </p><p>“No!” she said, sufficiently awoken from her reverie, “Please stay. You are always welcome. You know Serle can’t resist making far too much food for me and my father. Even if we do not always expect you, I believe she always does.” </p><p>He laughed softly and bowed slightly. “Thank you.” </p><p>She turned away from him and toward the dining room where she could hear her father settling into his chair at the head of the table, but before she could even take a step, she felt Mr. Knightley’s light touch on her arm. </p><p>“Emma,” he began, and she pivoted to face him again fully. His eyes were wide, and once again, she could detect so much feeling behind them, but was unable to define exactly what it was. “I hope you know how much—” he broke his gaze and looked down at his hands, “—how very much I value the friendship with which you and your father have always welcomed me.”</p><p>Ah, of course, <em> friendship. </em> She was glad her family was so dear to him, and she was sorry he might feel that anything— even any ill-advised attachment or marriage— might threaten <em> his </em> welcome in their home. Although, she thought grimly, she wasn’t sure if she could ever bring herself to accept a future <em> Mrs. </em> Knightley as an impromptu supper guest. </p><p>“Mr. Knightley, you will always have your chair by our fire,” she replied kindly, but she could not help but chide him just a bit, “Although it has been looking a little neglected lately. I noticed the other day a fine layer of dust had formed on the arms.” </p><p>She raised an eyebrow at him, and he grinned broadly at that. She could tell he was pleased that they were able to return to their usual fond teasing. </p><p>“Come, Emma.” He gestured for her to lead the way. “Let us not keep your father waiting. I feel as though I haven’t really eaten in weeks.” </p><p>She scoffed, “Knowing how well you take care of yourself, you probably haven’t.”</p><p>He laughed behind her as she led the way into the dining room, and they were seated. As she watched Mr. Knightley happily chatting with her father—his eyes glowing in the candlelight, his dear, familiar face etched with his usual dry humor— she thought that perhaps, this might be enough, for now. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Emma’s father usually took a single glass of wine in a tumbler of water during supper and nothing further, but Mr. Knightley’s return to their evening activities had left him so merry, Mr. Woodhouse had had <em> two </em> glasses—one without water— as well as a snifter of brandy during a rousing game of backgammon after dessert. </p>
<p>Emma had looked up from her book and raised her eyebrows as her father sent the footman away to fetch the brandy, and Mr. Knightley had caught her eye with a sly smile. How much she had missed these wordless conversations with one another! They silently agreed to say nothing of her father’s indulgence and to allow the poor man a little cheer when he felt apt to take it. </p>
<p>Only Mr. Woodhouse would have a fire roaring in the parlor in the heat of July— so fearful was he of colds. After backgammon, Mr. Knightley and her father joined her near the fire, all in their usual places: Mr. Knightley in his chair, Mr. Woodhouse in his, and Emma between them on the settee. When the conversation turned to varied predictions for the harvest season, Emma picked up her book and tried to read. </p>
<p>In reality, she was far too lost in her own thoughts to concentrate on conversation or literature. Though Mr. Knightley tried to draw her out, she found herself too overwhelmed—by the heady combination of the heat of the fire and Mr. Knightley’s presence— to be a good conversationalist.</p>
<p>Emma knew, of course, that she was in love with Mr. Knightley, having realized some weeks ago that he could be no one’s but her own. However, as he had been away in London and, following that, had avoided her company for so long, she had had very little time to truly experience what it was to be in love. When, in her nonsense, she had believed herself in love with Frank Churchill, she had attributed to the feeling a sense of listlessness, of boredom, of being unable to sit down. Now, however, she knew otherwise. </p>
<p>Rather than bored, she was transfixed. Though she could hardly focus on his words and, indeed, could barely look at him directly, she felt his every gesture. She could sense when his gaze was upon her. She felt bolstered by his laughter and practically preened under the warmth of his smile. What’s more, she discovered with further self-examination, this alertness to his moods and attention to his movements was hardly different from the way she felt around him three weeks ago. She knew that in the past she had enjoyed being <em> first </em> with him without much reflection, but she had not realized until now how deeply ingrained his influence was, how he would always and irrevocably be first with her. </p>
<p>Emma wondered if she would forever be confronted with some new aspect of her own delusion. Perhaps it was penance for her wrong-headed behavior over the last year. Was she doomed to always sit beside him, tongue-tied and blushing— or worse? </p>
<p>Like Dante following Virgil, she thought to herself, she followed her thoughts deeper into the depths of her imagination. She wondered how infrequent his visits might become. Might he instead be drawn in by afternoon tea at Mrs. Goddard’s? And perhaps a long walk to follow? She found herself imagining Harriet as Mrs. Knightley next to her on the settee, reaching for her husband’s knee to stroke it fondly. She imagined a child with Mr. Knightley’s blue-grey eyes and Harriet’s sloped nose. </p>
<p>Emma was brought back to reality when the fire popped loudly followed by a long hiss. She nearly laughed out loud when, glancing at her companions, she found them both relaxed in their respective chairs, asleep— no doubt due to the warmth of the room and the effect of their aperitifs. Emma shook her head at the arch detail of her own private melodrama when its principle had been dozing peaceably in her company. </p>
<p>Emma fetched her father’s valet who gently coaxed Mr. Woodhouse out of his chair and accompanied him up the stairs while the older gentleman remained half asleep. </p>
<p>That left Emma with Mr. Knightley, still slumbering soundly with his legs outstretched and his hands folded over his chest. In a reversal of their earlier positions, Emma stood above Mr. Knightley watching him without his knowledge, the ghost of a smirk still present on his face. In the glow of the firelight he looked so very young— she would not have guessed older than twenty-seven or eight if she did not know him. The furrow of his brow, the tightness in his jaw, all of the small indicators of the weight of his responsibilities as Master and Magistrate had disappeared. She knelt next to his chair and pondered how best to wake him.</p>
<p>Quite unwittingly, her fingertips found his forehead and gently swept his hair from his brow. Helpless, she lightly traced the line of his cheekbone and skimmed her knuckles along his jawline and under his chin. She smiled down at him, and for this one moment, he was hers. </p>
<p>Just as she was about to draw her hand away and wake him, Mr. Knightley reached up— still asleep— and pressed her hand into his cheek, humming happily as her palm brushed his lips. </p>
<p>“My love,” he murmured, his eyes still softly closed. Emma felt her throat constrict. He was dreaming of Harriet! Of her soft caresses and gentle manner. Emma tried vainly to pull her hand away. Instead he held her wrist more securely and pulled it downward, holding her hand to his heart. In her panic to deftly remove herself from his grip before he woke and saw not Harriet, but herself, she almost missed his quiet whisper— </p>
<p>“My Emma.”</p>
<p>Emma gasped audibly, and Mr. Knightley’s eyes flew open. </p>
<p>He saw first the shock on her face, situated very close to his own, and then, her hand pressed into his chest. As if it were a spider, he practically threw her hand back at her and stood up rapidly, taking several steps away from her. She stood as well and ran back to stand on the other side of the settee. </p>
<p>They both spoke at once. </p>
<p>“Emma, I’m—”</p>
<p>“You had fallen asleep, and I was trying to wake you and—” </p>
<p>“— must have dozed off with the fire and the brandy—”</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to— and then, well, you took my hand—” </p>
<p>“How does your father stand it? So warm!” </p>
<p>“You said <em> my </em> name.” </p>
<p>Emma knew he had heard her though it took him several moments to meet her eyes. Finally, he looked at her levelly. “I said your name?”</p>
<p>She nodded at him, wide eyed and weak kneed. She was gripping the back of the settee so hard she thought her nails might tear the fabric. But she had to know.</p>
<p>“You said, ‘<em> My </em>Emma,’ while you were sleeping.” </p>
<p>He sighed, shook his head, and laughed, but his laugh was bitter and hollow. “Emma,” he said, full of indignation, “I cannot regulate what I say in my <em> sleep.”  </em></p>
<p>Of course, Emma thought, releasing a long breath, it was a mistake— some silly dream. His derision did not go unnoticed. It was a ridiculous fancy, wishful thinking, that he would ever think of her as <em> his</em>.</p>
<p>“I know,” he continued, staring quite determinedly at the floor, “you have made it quite clear that you do not wish to hear of my l—“ he stopped himself abruptly as his hands closed into fists and the muscle in his jaw contracted— “my <em> feelings </em> for you, but you cannot expect that I just— well, that I—“</p>
<p>Emma leaned further into the back of the settee as her mouth dropped open. She was incredulous. “Your feelings— for <em> me?” </em></p>
<p>Mr. Knightley, still very focused on the pattern of the rug, nodded. “You stopped me from telling you that day in the shrubbery. Quite right, of course. I have humbled you, lectured you. There could be no way you could return—” He shrugged, resigned. “And I should like to preserve our friendship if that is possible. Please believe me, Emma, these last two weeks have been miserable. You, and of course, your father, are very dear to me.”</p>
<p>As he spoke, Emma slowly, carefully approached him, her heart beating faster as she eliminated the distance and furniture between them. Finally, the hem of her skirt broached the sphere of his downward gaze. </p>
<p>“Emma, I promise, you can trust me. I <em> can </em> be your friend. I will <em> repress </em> whatever romantic—“</p>
<p>“I would prefer that you didn’t,” she interrupted and reached up to repeat her actions before, gently brushing his forehead with her fingertips and tracing the line of his cheekbone.</p>
<p>He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. Emma could almost see the sadness, so present in his look much of the evening, begin to dissipate. </p>
<p>“Emma,” he said, leaning just a little into her hand on his cheek, “Would it be forward to ask you to pinch me?” </p>
<p>She furrowed her brow, but a smile played at the corner of her mouth, “Yes. Why?” </p>
<p>“I’m not dreaming this time?”</p>
<p>Emma’s fingertips trailed over to his earlobe, and she pinched it tightly. “Not unless I am too.” </p>
<p>He raised his arms slowly and cupped her face with one hand while the other settled lightly at her waist. He released a long, shuddering breath as he lowered his forehead to meet hers. </p>
<p>“Since we can’t be sure,” he said and audibly swallowed, “Could I recommend a second test?” </p>
<p>Emma blinked back happy tears. “It’s always best to be thorough.” </p>
<p>Unable to wait any longer, Mr. Knightley tilted his head and kissed her softly. A small jolt of fear rippled through him as he felt her tense beneath his hands— What if he’d got it all wrong again?— but then he felt her sigh into his mouth and her fingers wove through his hair, pulling him into her. Closing his eyes tightly and parting his lips to deepen the kiss, he resolved to doubt no more. He slipped his arm further about her waist and pressed her still closer. </p>
<p>Emma too was uncertain at first, having never kissed anyone before, but the low moan emanating from his throat was certainly encouraging. She felt at once both incredibly alert and moments away from fainting as his lips captured her lower one and pulled softly. His thumb drew small circles on her back, sending heat coursing through her. Emma clutched at his coat to help her stay upright and was vaguely shocked as the notion crossed her mind that he would be far better off without it on. </p>
<p>His mouth moved to her cheek and his lips trailed across her face and her jaw until his nose brushed the shell of her ear. He planted wet, open mouth kisses down the sensitive skin of her neck, and she breathed his name into his ear, “Mr. Knightley.”</p>
<p>Finally, he reached her shoulder and at the moment when Emma thought she might actually collapse in his arms, she felt the sharp pinch of his teeth just above her collarbone. </p>
<p>She gasped and drew back to look him full in the face. His eyes crinkled mischievously, and he was trying not to smile. </p>
<p>“Just thought you’d want to be sure too,” he said, and, unable to maintain his serious expression, he beamed at her. </p>
<p>Emma couldn’t help herself. A torrent of giggles bubbled up from deep within her, and Mr. Knightley joined in, chuckling softly while running his thumb across her lips. </p>
<p>Finally, she regained her composure and touched her nose to his. </p>
<p>“Mr. Knightley, would you like a coffee before you walk home?” </p>
<p>“Oh, Emma,” he replied, “I have never felt more awake,” and he lowered his lips to hers again. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I told you I couldn't let them be sad for very long. :) Just one more little fluffy chapter after this one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Part III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Emma awoke with a start, sitting straight up. She could tell from the light filling into her room that it was later than usual. Why had her maid not woken her? She had gone to bed quite late. And why has she gone to bed so late? Emma raised her fingertips to her lips as the evening came flooding back.</p><p>
  <em> “Emma, my love, I should go,” he said as he pulled away. </em>
</p><p><em> “So I am your </em> love <em> now, Mr. Knightley?”  </em></p><p>
  <em> He lifted her hand to play with her fingers. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her. “Of course.” </em>
</p><p><em> “Yet, you haven’t exactly </em> said <em> you love me. Indeed,” she said, self-consciously biting her lip, “You haven’t said much at all.”  </em></p><p>
  <em> His mouth quirked in amusement. “Mmm.” He ran his fingertips over her palm. “Perhaps if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She cocked her head, examining him. “You will visit us tomorrow?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He raised her hand to his lips, and she remembered how just before he left London, he had done the same, but then, by some fancy, dropped it. This time he did not, and he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Luckily, Serle always expects me.”  </em>
</p><p>Emma looked in wonder at her hand as if it might still bear the imprint of his lips, grinned wildly, and flopped back down into her pillows. She fleetingly thought of poor, dear Harriet in London with John and Isabella for at least another fortnight, but her outlook was too happy, too near to giddy to hold on to dim thoughts for long. She knew soon she must address the consequences of her mistakes and delusions, but not yet, not today.  </p><p>By the time she descended the staircase, breakfast was well on its way. Emma could hear her father requesting a boiled egg— “Very soft!”— and hot water with lemon. Nodding at the servants as she made her way down the hall, Emma was struck by the simple ordinariness of the morning when she herself felt certain that nothing could ever be ordinary again. </p><p>Emma entered the breakfast room quite gaily, throwing her arms about her father and kissing him fondly on the cheek, when she was startled to find— sitting across the table as if it were any other morning— </p><p>“Mr. Knightley! We did not expect you for breakfast.”</p><p>Emma might have thought she <em> had </em>dreamed the evening previous— despite his ample assurances to the contrary— but he was looking at her with such open and clear affection, there could be no question of its result. </p><p>“Mr. Knightley must have missed the healthful menu here at Hartfield, my dear,” Mr. Woodhouse declared while tucking into his gruel, “Perhaps you should ask our Serle to have a word with Mrs. Reynolds.”</p><p>“I assure you, sir, that I am well fed at home, and that I merely craved a walk this morning,” he glanced sidelong at Emma, “And of course yours and Emma’s delightful company.”</p><p>Emma smiled at him through her bite of toast. </p><p>“I do not like to contradict you, Mr. Knightley,” Mr. Woodhouse took a delicate sip of his weak tea, “But I must say, these past weeks when you’ve been too busy to dine with us, you’ve looked quite pale and drawn. Now, one supper with us at Hartfield, and you look as though all the color has returned to your complexion! I haven’t seen you look so well in a month!” </p><p>“Perhaps you are right, sir,” he replied to Mr. Woodhouse though his gaze was fixed on Emma, “Hartfield is the answer to all my ills.” </p><p>Emma blessed him with her sauciest smirk as she sprinkled sugar on her porridge. </p><p> </p><p>After swiftly finishing her breakfast, Emma announced that she was to take a turn outside. </p><p>“As it is such a fine day, Mr. Knightley, and you were looking to exercise, perhaps you might join me in the shrubbery?”</p><p>“Of course, Emma,” Mr. Knightley stood to follow her outside, “And I believe we have a conversation to continue.”</p><p>And so, two weeks after their walk had begun, Mr. Knightley and Emma found themselves just where they had been before—though their respective states of mind could not have been more different. When they had rounded the corner and were out of sight of the parlor, Mr. Knightley took Emma’s hand and threaded their fingers together. </p><p>Emma shyly smiled at him, “I believe, Mr. Knightley, before I very rudely interrupted, you were about to tell me in what respect you envy Frank Churchill. As your friend, I will hear whatever you like, and I will tell you exactly what I think.” </p><p>“Mmm, yes,” Mr. Knightley began with great solemnity, “Well, if you must know, Emma, I have been near paralyzed with jealousy over one particular aspect of Mr. Churchill’s good fortune— his very fashionable haircut.” </p><p>Emma scoffed and jabbed her elbow into his side as he laughed. Seeing her indignant look, he reached for her other hand and fully faced her. </p><p>“Since you have now so kindly asked the point of my envy, my dearest, my most beloved Emma, I shall tell you all.”</p><p>Emma was nothing if not gently bred, and so she blushed charmingly at his endearments. However, she was also a woman of means and independence, unafraid to ask for what she wanted: “I would like it if you could show me as well.” </p><p>And so he did. </p><p> </p><p>They made their way back to the house a half hour later. Emma was grateful Mr. Knightley had not asked her why she had stopped him so abruptly a fortnight ago; Mr. Knightley, for his part, thought it might have had something to do with Emma’s ridiculous suspicions regarding Jane Fairfax and was content to let it lie. </p><p>As they neared the garden wall, Emma worked to straighten her chemisette, and watched, amused, as Mr. Knightley tried vainly to flatten the hair on the back of his head that had been thoroughly pulled and raked during their embrace. Her father might notice the redness of her cheeks and neck, but it was easily explained by the brightness and heat of the day. </p><p>Mr. Knightley caught her observing his futile efforts to neaten his hair. </p><p>“I would not have your father guess at the real intention behind my visits quite yet, though we must speak with him soon enough.”</p><p>Emma laughed, shaking her head. “Mr. Knightley, perhaps <em> I </em> should have guessed at your visits’ true purpose these last few months as they’ve become longer and more frequent. After all, though Father would not like me saying it, I know you do not patronize our dining table for the varied and flavorful cuisine.” </p><p>Mr. Knightley gasped with exaggerated shock. “My dear Emma, I assure you, the privilege of dining on gruel and eggs boiled very soft is my sole motivation.” </p><p>“Never sole itself, though, Mr. Knightley. You know how my father feels about fish.” </p><p>He laughed heartily at this, and— just before they reached the wall of the shrubbery— caught her elbow and spun her back into his arms. </p><p>“If you can promise lightly salted vegetables and a lean cut of beef, I might consider coming for dinner.” </p><p>Emma pressed her lips lightly to his and agreed, “I can think of nothing better.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just a fluffy little chapter to close us off. :) Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and that you'll review if you're so inclined.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>